“Then don’t tell her.” Mad thought, indeed, but impossible to suppress it, seemed a tether to those things Atlas said he wanted for her here—safety, happiness. “Let her believe we’re in love.”
“As if she won’t find us out?” His voice had lowered, and he bent closer to her, his large body bowing over hers. “My mother has evidence of couples in love all around her, Clara. Madly in love. As she was with her husband. She’ll know. But she won’t?—”
“Please, Atlas.” She hated begging, but it came so easily to her after daily pleading with Lord Tefler to let her see her son, just for a moment. Never again, she’d promised herself. Yet here she was. This, too, for Alfie. What would happen if the dowager discovered Clara and Atlas weren’t in love? What would Clara and Alfie do if the woman’s warmth froze over?
Atlas straightened and thrust a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “Very well. We’ll simply… not challenge her assumptions.”
“Thank you.” She popped up on toe and kissed his cheek. She shouldn’t, for her own sake. Because the coach ride had taught her the limits of her own body when faced with temptation. But he’d given her comfort at his own expense. She owed him something, had nothing to give but a kiss, short and sweet and likely hurting her more than it rewarded him.
He jerked away, his eyes hot coals of blue, sparking, as if she’d scorched him with her tiny bit of a kiss. But then, on a half breath, the fire of his gaze poured languid throughout his body, and his face slid into a picture of hard determination, then he rolled his body into hers, captured her with his large hands.
He slid them down her back, so low he flirted with impropriety as he held her tight. As he took her lips withhis own. A kiss. He pulled her bottom lip softly between his teeth, his warmth stealing her breath. The kiss rocked her and steadied her, melted every thought, every shadow, every sound so nothing existed but his lips and hers. His hands, inching lower over the curve of her arse, thumb stroking the beginning curve of it. And hers, cupping the rough, stubbled jaw, thumb dipping into that delectable dimple. His heart and hers, both beating with an ever-increasing rhythm.
Until he pulled away just enough to say, “Like that, Clara? Is that how we pretend?”
Holy Hepplewhite, that was pretending? Heaven help her if he ever kissed her for real.
“I… yes. That works… quite well.” She smiled, breathless, patted his chest, and bounced into the room.
She’d done the right thing. Anything for Alfie. Including lying about being in love to protect her position in this house.
Eight
Atlas had done the right thing. Clearly. His mother and sisters-in-law had collected Clara like a doll a half hour after he’d kissed her in the hall. She’d had time enough only to down a cup of tea and locate the bedchamber she’d use that night before being carted off into the fire-warmed dark. They sat now grouped together on a collection of large logs on the other side of the bonfire, Alfie on Clara’s lap, his eyes wide and watching. Clara glowed. His mother seemed about to weep. And Matilda watched it all with eyes that twinkled over a cup that likely contained some sort of warm wine.
He’d saved her and the child and paid a little bit more penance. Now, when he left them all in a year’s time, he’d leave them with another body, a better soul to replace the ragged one he’d drag off with him into the wide world.
Beside him, on the edges of the crowd, Raph scowled. “Hers is a sad story. You’re right—marriage seems the logical solution for her. But you didn’t have to be that husband. It’s like when you enlisted. You didn’t have to.”
But he had enlisted. And the family had been glad for the prize money he’d sent home, likely glad as well to not have another large mouth to feed, though they’d never have said it.
“It’s not too late,” Raph said, “we can find her a husband who’s not you. Some man in the village who?—”
“No.”
“You’ll really sacrifice yourself to a loveless marriage, then?” Raph’s voice rumbled out hard and sad at the same time.
“Don’t try to play the virtuous suitor. I remember well enough a year ago when you were refusing to marry the woman you loved and pursuing heiresses. They needed your title, and you needed their money.”
Raph held up his hands, palms flat. “True. But I thank God every waking moment I didn’t follow through with that plan.”
Atlas sighed. “I’m attracted to her. If it helps.” And she was attracted to him. The kiss they’d shared in the hallway told him as much. But she was currently not disposed to giving into the attraction. Perhaps if Atlas remained patient, waited for her to come to him, they might enjoy a little fling before he left. No harm in that. They’d be married, after all.
“Helps a bit. But what happens when attraction fades?” Atlas wouldn’t have to worry about that. He’d be gone by then. Raph slapped him on the back. “If you needed someone to share your bed, brother, there are easier ways than marriage. Look.” Raph pointed. “There’s Theo and Zander.”
He made his way toward their brothers, and Atlas followed. Theo greeted them with a nod and Zander with glittering eyes as he lifted a bottle of wine to his lips.
Raph wrapped an arm around Atlas’s shoulders. “Congratulate our brother. Tomorrow he joins us in newlywed bliss.”
Zander promptly spit out the swig of wine in a sputtering cough and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Married?”
Theo laughed, water leaking from the corners of his eyes as he bent double with wheezing breaths. “Excellent joke, Raph.”
“It’s not a joke,” Atlas growled. “I’m marrying Mrs. Clara Bronwen tomorrow morning.”
“Who?” Zander asked.
“When?” Theo sputtered. “How long have you known her?”
